Star Wars: Witness
by PippinStrange
Summary: A bounty hunter working for the Rebellion. Two schoolboys, one Force-sensitive and the other allergic to anything serious. An Imperial officer with a change of heart. A rebel with heart set on an impossible marriage. This is the motley cast of the WITNESS shuttle, participants of the rebellion against the Empire, and eyewitnesses to the events of the original trilogy.
1. A Secret Meeting

Dear Readers,

This was a fan fiction that I began when I was a teenager. I finally decided to open it up, rewrite the beginning, and fix everything. I've rediscovered my obsession with Star Wars (an obsession I thought that died sometime in 2009 or something) and want to contribute to the genre while the excitement is there for episode VII. Please review and let me know what you think!

Pippin

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**Chapter One**

**A Secret Meeting**

Coruscant's skyline was a kaleidoscope of black towers and neon flashes of light. Above the surface of the planet, the poverty and villainy made way for the clean, shining skyscrapers of the wealthy and the leaders of the Empire. The capitol was unbalanced; glued together by the transition point shrouded in smog, where bars, malls, and working-class citizens lived, and there was a brief feeling of middle-ground.

She was not a member of the surface, the spires, nor the center underground layers. She weaved in and out of them, a chameleon to her surroundings. Medium height, average build, her face marked by pale skin and black tattoos that made cross-shapes on either cheek. Her long, brown hair was pulled back tightly from her face and yet the pony-tail still hung nearly to her back. If she was ever in the offices of Galactic officials, she pulled a black hood over her head. When she was below, she cast the hood aside and walked confidently in moderate brown attire that showed enough body tone to attract a little attention. But always on second glance, someone would usually turn away. Her stride seemed to say _bounty hunter, _but no one would ever ask if that is what she was.

After all, she might kill them after saying yes.

She met with a contact on the surface, in a home of ill-repute where people bought drinks at the tavern in the front, and retired to small bedrooms crammed in a winding back hallway. They bought drinks at separate ends of the bar, and made eye contact over the rims of their glasses.

Finally, he stood and made his way towards her. A man dressed in Imperial garb, though not a high-ranking uniform. His black hair was too long and adolescent for him to be anyone too important, and his crooked, alluring smile in pale skin rather immature for a man of the Empire. His flickering yellow eyes were the only things that betrayed his non-human origin.

"Can I buy you another drink?" he said, sidling up to her in the bar.

"Don't you want to know my name?" she asked, pursing her lips.

"Of course I do."

"Tal Ferris. What is your name?"

"Ian Grimhook. I am a security officer for the regional governor's office. Now, how about that drink?"

She drained the last of her glass. "Why delay the inevitable?" she grabbed a lapel of his starched shirt and pulled him towards her, kissing him on the lips hungrily. "There now," she said when she leaned back, "This is why men should never make the first move. You take too long, and you forget to ask for a name."

"I'm more than willing for you to show me how to proceed from here," he replied suavely, draining the last of his own glass.

Tal sent a meaningful glance over to the barman. "I don't suppose there is a private place for my friend and I to have a 'chat', is there?"

The barman chuckled. "Room forty is open. Back door."

"Come on," Tal grabbed Ian's hand. "I think this lesson is better taught alone." He followed her with a drunken sway through the curtains between chairs and tables on the back wall. They were immersed in darkness, the only thing lighting their way were small yellow lights above each door to show the room number. Tal ignored the various sounds and moved aside quickly whenever someone pushed past them in the darkness. Finally, room forty. Ian grabbed her shoulders and kissed her fiercely. She barely had enough time to reach behind and hit the control panel to open.

Someone tall, slim, and chartreuse-green walked by and hissed, "Hey, at least go inside, yeah?"

"Sorry," Ian mumbled, not sorry at all. The door slid open the rest of the way, and he and Tal practically fell inside, lips locked and hands entangled in the other's hair or clothes.

Then the door shut with a whir, and the little light above the door changed from green to yellow like all the ones previous.

Ian and Tal were instantly apart, smoothing hair and adjusting their clothes.

"That was a good one," Ian said, grinning broadly.

"I might have fallen in love with you, for a minute or two," Tal winked.

"But it didn't last?"

"No, I'm afraid all feelings of attachment have gone now."

Ian sighed. "Well, let me know if they ever return."

"Never."

Ian paused, and finally broke character, laughing. He opened his arms and Tal stepped into them. They embraced, and he gave her a very polite kiss on the lips that spoke of a restraint that his alter-ego certainly did not possess.

"So what is it?" he asked, sitting on the bed. Tal sat beside him.

"I'm sure you know," she said, resuming a business-like manner. "My latest assignment from the Emperor. But it is a little different this time. This one is here on Coruscant."

"Here? Really!"

"It's been easier before. I leave, I seek, I find, kidnap, deliver. Reporting the news of their death has always been the Emperor taking my word for it."

"He trusts you that much?"

"He doesn't know me, personally. He does not know my loyalty. I make my reports to my supervisor, he reports to either Vader or Tarkin, and they report to the Emperor. I merely give them statistics of my success."

"So you will not just be able to do the same as usual?"

"No. I have to smuggle the body out of Coruscant if I am to save his life. I've always disposed of the bodies in creative ways—or so I've told them—so that if I ever ran into a situation like this, one strange circumstance wouldn't appear so strange. But I cannot travel too far without appearing suspicious. I need to deliver the body to the rebellion without going all the way to their base—on the chance I could be followed. I doubt they would follow me, but we cannot risk it."

"You want to convene somewhere nearby."

"Yes. Where?"

"There is an asteroid field that has been passing close to Coruscant. Remnants, I think, of that storm in the rings around Kessery."

"I saw it on the holonet."

"We could meet inside of the field. It could be dangerous."

"What is an asteroid compared to my work? I'm always in danger."

"I can take the body to the rebellion, they've met…"

"Don't tell me. Remember? You promised never to tell me. If—someday—I were caught… even under torture, I don't ever want to reveal the location."

Ian hesitated, and then took her hand. "I just want you to have a place to run to. Should you ever need to."

"That's what I have you for, don't I?"

"But if _I _got caught or killed, I want you to find the Rebels and be safe with them—should the worst occur."

"I'm afraid you'll just have to stay alive for my sake, then."

"I suppose so," Ian replied wearily. "So… when is this taking place?"

"I'm going to get him tomorrow evening. I've been studying his patterns for the past few days. He leaves school and goes home with a friend, but usually in the evening he wanders out alone. I'll get him then."

"When do you want to meet?"

"Midnight. But don't send me your coordinates until I've made it past the blockade. But I'll make it, I just have to spin a story about why I have to take the body off-planet."

"What have you got in mind?"

"Trade secret." Tal squeezed his hand and leaned in, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him close. "Don't worry about me."

"I always do."

She kissed his cheek gently and sighed into his neck. "I know."

"When are you going to give up your job and come marry me?"

"When the rebellion no longer needs me on Coruscant."

"That could be forever, you know."

"I know, I know," Tal replied with some frustration. "Let's not talk about it now. We've got this room for the night. Let's get some sleep. Remember, you have to leave first. Sneak out and leave me the bill."

"I'm such a cad."

"It took all of three seconds to pick you up at the bar. Of course you're a cad."

Ian nodded and got up, removing his jacket and working on removing his boots. Tal moved to the other side of the bed, removing the band from her hair and slipping off her slim shoes that appear sexy but possess the soles that make them good for running. If she could help it, she never played her roles in those ridiculous heels. Bounty hunters could always be caught if they didn't dress for running.

Ian turned out the light, and the two slipped into bed. She snuggled against his side and his arm went around her.

"Goodnight, my love," he whispered, kissing the top of her head.

Tal took a deep breath, and fought her weakness that always managed to claw its way through her whenever they were together. She wanted to be with Ian, forever. But her cause was more important than her selfish desire. She was honorable to the Jedi's ancient ways, and while she never planned on being one herself, she always tried to follow what was known of their traditions. Keeping herself from attachment was one of these laws that she knew of, attempted, and seemed to fail at time and time again.

"Oh, Ian," she whispered lightly, tilting her face towards him. "Sometimes I just don't want to go to sleep, knowing you'll be gone when I wake up."

He kissed her lips again. "It breaks my heart when you say things like that."

"No more than mine has already been broken."

"This is a much more difficult engagement than I imagined."

"I warned you when you asked."

Ian interlocked his fingers with hers. "Even if we never succeed in our lives with anything, it was worth living knowing that I asked you, and you said yes. It may not be satisfying in the long run, being apart and all… but…"

"Just knowing you're mine is enough, for now," Tal replied.

"Exactly. That's what I mean. You've always been better with words."

"I pray that you're right. I will need that tomorrow when I speak to my supervisor and request permission to transport a dead body off of Coruscant."

...

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	2. School Debate

**Chapter Two**

**School Debate**

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_In our darkest hour of history, the people—not the Jedi—rose from the ashes. The peace and order WE have brought were the saviors of our world, a world threatened by those who claimed they wanted peace, when it was only power they desired. It is not a throne I have sought, but I will take a stand with my people. If the will of the people begs for freedom from the Jedi, then I will hear it. When the will of the people beg for a united galaxy, I will answer. When foes threaten our security, I will lay down my life to save it. This is the will of the people. This is the Galactic Empire. _

_-Emperor Palpatine, address to the people, 19 BBY_

_..._

What was it like—being a Jedi in the last days? Did they walk the halls and feel the danger before it struck, allowing for a moment of terror before a lightsaber cut them down? Were they an enemy—or was anyone—in the very last seconds of fear before death?

Darren's brown eyes wandered to the view from the window.

Mirrored skyscrapers reflecting the cityscape shone with sunlight while cruisers moved steadily through the sky in a slow traffic line. Darren noticed a particularly boxy, macho space cruiser called a Botran IV—he'd seen a commercial for it on the holonet. For a moment, he pictured himself behind its controls, guiding it through the shining atmosphere around his home planet.

The professor's monotone, dreary voice overcame the sound of the ships motors.

"Darren? Would you kindly share what has your attention so avidly?"

Darren glanced up. "Well, to be honest—certainly not your _eleventh _lecture on the evil of Jedi."

The class muffled laughter. "Silence!" Professor Crane said sharply, tapping his pen on the podium. "Kindly explain 'eleventh'," he added, in a softer tone.

Darren held up his compad. "I've kept a tally. A lecture may start on the use of blasters set to stun for school security, or even the growth of completely artificial tomatoes in the green dome—but somehow you always end up on a tangent about your hate for the Jedi… particularly, Mace Windu."

"Oooooh," droned Constantine from the other side of the classroom. An assigned seat, of course, he had gotten in trouble far too often for making his hilarious commentary to Darren in an undertone when he sat right beside him. He also loved a good debate in class—it usually meant postponing anything he had to memorize.

"The _late _Mace Windu," corrected Professor Crane. "The man was a traitor; a delusional madman."

"Alive or not," Darren said coolly, "I rest my case."

"He tried to assassinate the Emperor. Surely you cannot deny the reasoning behind my opinions. Mace Windu attacked, and our Emporer was rescued by Lord Vader."

"If his guards were any good, Windu wouldn't have even gotten close," Darren sighed.

"Hey, didn't you used to be one of his personal red guards, Professor Crane?" giggled Constantine.

All the students chuckled. It was known that Professor Crane used to be a bodyguard, but when he grew older, he retired into teaching in the Coruscant public school system. He often referred back to the days 'When I personally served the Emperor' and brought it up as often as they teased him about it.

Professor Crane pointed at him. "Detention. And you," he pointed at Darren, "Detention." He leaned over his notes, smiling lightly. "The way you carry on, Darren, I'd suspect you were a Jedi supporter. You know what happens to their followers—don't you?"

"I think I have an inkling," Darren replied nonchalantly, gathering his books. "You know what's weird, guys?" he directed this to the classroom. "Our leaders and school administration love to brag about the empire, but have you noticed we're not allowed to have any opinions of our own? And yet all they say is that the empire is the 'will of the people'. Since when has my will—or yours—ever been considered?"

"That's quite enough, Darren," said Professor Crane. "I could have you arrested for a treasonous, _psychotic_ breakdown. Keep this up and we'll be obliged to lock you away. Luckily for you—you don't attend the Galactic Academy. They do not look as kindly on rebellious outbursts such as yours."

"Ah, yes, the _fancy_ school where the sons of officers get to learn the exact same garbage. I guess I should be happy I come from a poor family so that I don't get a blaster shot to the head." Darren bowed mockingly to the teacher, and moved to exit the classroom. "If you start killing _us _off, you take away the maintenance and sewer workers of the city's underbelly. Heaven forbid."

"They're not asking you to deliver a moon to their doorstep," said one of the girls near the front. "It's not all that hard to follow rules, seriously. Death is not all that steep of a punishment when security is threatened by dangerous idealists."

"If you hate the Empire so much, why don't you just move to the outer rim or something?" exclaimed a girl with a ditsy sort of whine, earning nods of approval from her fellow seatmates.

"Have you ever tried to leave this planet?" Darren walked by Constantine and gave his shoulder a pat, reminding the distracted fellow to follow him to detention. Constantine broke his gaze away from the stupid—but very sexy—girl that had spoken.

"Uh, no," said the girl.

"Try sometime. Stormtroopers will stop you and threaten to shoot you unless you have 'special permission'. We're hostages on our own planet, Sarah. It's been like that for regular citizens who aren't tradesmen or officials since the Clone Wars ended."

"GET OUT OF MY CLASSROOM," snarled Professor Crane, marching towards Darren and Constantine threateningly. "Don't think I won't call security on you."

Darren glanced at Constantine, who kept dropping his things. Darren sighed, grabbed his backpack for him, and led him out of the classroom.

"No need to exercise your right to be verbally violent," Darren mumbled. "Come on, Steen." Constantine managed to hold his books without dropping them—the boy was ridiculously clumsy—and followed Darren out of the classroom, with Professor Crane hovering just behind them.

"Come back when you've learned some respect," he called after them.

"I'll come back when you learn about human rights," Darren mumbled.

"Actually, I'll just come back when you aren't boring," Constantine added loudly. He could have sworn that Professor Crane responded with a highly rude hand gesture before going back to his podium—but it could have been just a trick of the light.

A metallic female voice began talking lightly over the hallway loudspeakers. "STUDENTS OUT OF CLASS. Bade, Darren. Pamu, Constantine. State your reason."

"Detention," Constantine grinned.

"Detention for Bade, Darren and Pamu, Constantine confirmed by Crane, Xeno. Proceed to office."

"Idiot," mumbled Darren, "You were supposed to say 'illness' and then run for it before Crane plugged it in. Then it would've just shown up on his screen as 'students unaccounted for' and take nearly twenty minutes scanning the building for us."

Constantine shrugged. "Like I know these things. And hey! You're the disrespectful one. I'm the funny one. We've covered this. I don't do anything wrong but we always get in trouble together. That's how we roll." He added a completely uncoordinated dance move to accompany the last statement.

"You're an idiot."

"Hey, you're the treasonous ass." Constantine shrugged. "I use my funny bone to go on the line for you, distract the proff, get you off the hook—but NO! You just have to continue one of your political rants and get us both in the can. Thank-YOU."

"You're welcome," Darren sighed. Constantine growled.

Detention meant sitting at a single table in a wide, white room; sitting quietly and listen to a computer reminding them, over and over, what was wrong about their actions. Constantine called it 'bitchy'. Darren preferred to think of it as a form of brainwash. It was hard to think clearly after detention. If anyone talked, there was an immediate reset, and points were taken away from your file. If a certain amount of points were gone after 3 detentions, they were suspended and points were docked from overall grades.

Darren knew when something was beyond unfair. He'd done enough reading to know that this was ludicrous and unjust action. Something the Emporer neglected to do after he took power was a proper book-burning. All dictators ought to seal their control with a book burning—but Darren frequented the library, libraries that held what was left from the Jedi temple and libraries from all over the universe. It broadened his mind to what lay outside of the Empire.

"I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR, I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR, I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR, I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR," said the computer soothingly, over and over and over again.

"I need earplugs!" whispered Constantine. A red light flashed, there was a beep, and the computer said, "Pamu, Constantine. Please remain silent. Minus one point."

"I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR, I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR, I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR, I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR …" with every word, Darren's heart seemed to beat faster. He felt rage silently moving through his veins with his blood.

After fifteen minutes, the voice finally stopped. Constantine complained of a headache, and Darren felt the voices continue in his mind.

"I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR, I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR, I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR, I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR, I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR, I WILL RESPECT THE EMPEROR…"

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	3. Daddy Issues

**Chapter Three**

**Daddy Issues**

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Constantine kicked a piece of garbage off the stairs. "Got anything for a headache?" he asked Darren cheerfully.

"Yeah. I'm sure I'll find something. Mom gets headaches all the time." Darren led the way up the small stairs attached to the side of the porch. His home was not all that bad, considering it was on the surface in one of the low-income neighborhoods. Darren always wondered why their house looked like shiny blue plastic while the others looked like beaten, iron metal plates stapled together with droid parts. Up the stairs and skirting around the green potted plants that crowded the tiny porch, Darren punched in the key code and the solid white door slid open.

His apartment was tiny. The front entrance led right into the kitchen, a small square of a room with space on the left for appliances and a table set for four on the left. Through the kitchen, there was a small sitting room. The window in the sitting room used to look out into a courtyard in the center of other apartments like their own, but those shiny apartments quickly dissipated and were replaced by cruder, poorer establishments. Darren remembered, when he was a child, they used to have neighbors that were family—at least three or four uncles that all looked remarkably similar to his father, and their families, and a dozen cousins. Times had changed. They had found new positions among the Empire's many job opportunities and moved away. As far as he knew, Darren's father, Mr. Bade, hadn't spoken with them for years.

The window now looked onto a decimated alleyway, new buildings cropped up and crowded until the view was the solid wall of iron about three feet away. A small door led down a metal ladder into the alleyway, and this was Mr. Bade's most current escape route for the bar just a few meters away.

"Ah, Dad's not home," he said in a relieved voice.

"Not yet, anyway," Constantine replied knowingly.

Darren led Constantine through the small hallway on the right to his parent's bedroom. A small cupboard held some headache medicine, and Darren gave a dose to his friend and took one for himself. That detention computer always gave him migraines.

Then they hid inside Darren's room, and tried to do homework quietly, lounging in cramped bag chairs and sharing a bowl of orange poppers.

"Darren? Are you home?" called a timid voice after a whir of the front door.

"Yeah," Darren shoved Constantine's _History of the Galactic Empire _off of his leg and went back to the kitchen. His mother was unloading a tiny bag of groceries into a cupboard. "Hey," he said, carefully.

"School called."

"I figured they would."

"You're lucky they didn't call security. Or worse, the task force."

"I know."

His mother was a small, dark-haired, mouse of a woman. Darren always wondered how she had ended up with his father—a tall, tanned brutish alcoholic.

"You can't lose your temper like that at school, not again," said Mrs. Bade. "If not for your grades, do it for yourself. For your own well-being."

"I do nothing worth while for myself if I stay silent. I get angry too much."

"I know you and your father don't always get along," his mother said quietly, "But you can't take out your anger on your school teachers, either."

"It had nothing to do with Dad. I'm angry at our _life_."

Mrs. Bade fixed him with a bug-eyed stare. "We're lucky in many ways. Your father was never transferred to dangerous outer-rim planets like his brothers, we have been left alone and in peace. I have my doubts that the Emperor himself affects your personal life."

Darren bit his lip. "I don't want to argue about this. I'm worn out."

"Dinner will be ready soon. Will Constantine be staying?"

Constantine heard his name and wandered from the bedroom, with a lazy yawn. "If you don't mind, Mrs. B. My parents have been gone for a few days and I don't think there's any food at my house."

"Where is it that your parents go?"

"Oh, you know. Weekend getaways. Weekday vacations. They're just always traveling. They don't really bother to stock up before they go."

"Why don't you just stay for the week?"

"You sure?" Darren exclaimed.

Mrs. Bade gave him a stern look. "It's fine. Constantine can sleep on the sofa. You boys can go to his house and get some of his things. We have plenty of food, Darren." She gave them a pitiful smile. "I know the neighborhood isn't much, but we are not living in poverty. Your father's pension is generous."

"Why is Dad's pension so generous when he doesn't work?" Darren asked. "I've always wondered."

"His brothers went on to work, your father retired. I don't know his whole story, son. It's not our business to pry into his past. But whatever he did, it was fairly important. It gives us enough to live on."

"Whatever is left over after he spends half on booze," Darren added.

"Speaking of which," said his mother tiredly, without even bothering to defend her husband. "He is at the tavern down the street. Will you go fetch him for me, please? Tell him dinner is ready." She paused. "Take Constantine with you. He's been there almost all day."

"All day?" Darren exclaimed. Even for his father, that was a little steep. He spent most evenings there, but day was usually spent playing some sort of gambling or pool games with friends at other establishments, or sitting quietly in front of the holonet for hours on end. All day in the bar could only mean one thing—he would be stone drunk and as violent as a nest of gundarks.

"He was upset with me this morning," Mrs. Bade said. "And left early."

All this time, she had kept her body positioned in a way so that she faced the counter, unloading groceries and chopping vegetables to add to a humming bowl on the stove. Darren hadn't noticed particularly, but the way her voice hitched at the word 'left'…

He reached over and pulled on her arm, turning her away from the counter. The side of her face was bruised, she had been hit—maybe two or three times, it seemed. "Mom!" Darren said, as if in physical pain for her sake.

"Just bring him home, please," she said, tersely.

"Did you put some bacta ice on this?"

"Yes, yes, it's fine. Don't worry. I had him under control within a minute and he left in a temper. He doesn't know what he's doing and it's not his fault, you know that."

"I don't know that!"

"I do. It's not _him, _you know. There are other forces at work. You are young and you can't possibly understand that."

"I will never understand it," Darren agreed bitterly. He turned and headed for the back door, beckoning Constantine to follow. Constantine gave an apologetic nod to Mrs. Bane and went after Darren awkwardly, wishing he could think of a way to apologize to Mrs. B without sounding like a jackass. 'Hey your husband is like the back end of a Hutt but I hope you feel better' just doesn't constitute as polite sympathy.

When they stepped down into the alleyway, a shadow emerged from a doorway. She watched Darren with calculating eyes. When she saw Constantine follow, she melted back into the darkness. Not yet. Later.

Darren, used to seeing shadows of less than savory folk in the alleyway, didn't take much notice. He did glance towards her as they walked by, but she seemed to have disappeared.

A brisk walk of thirty seconds led to the bar entrance. Darren and Constantine walked inside, blinking to adjust to the darkness. The only lights were at the bar, glowing purple and pink and blinking in time to enthralling, psychedelic music. The place was crowded and filled with all sorts of people and beings.

"Aren't you a little young to be here?" cooed the voice of a bluish-colored Twi'lek, stepping close to Constantine and trailing a seductive finger down his startled face.

"Too young to die, too young for you," Constantine yelped uncomfortably. Darren moved ahead without paying any attention, and Constantine darted after him.

Mr. Bade was sitting at the bar. A muscular, tall man, with tanned skin and black hair, and a raspy voice that spoke of years of service to the Empire and the slur of drunkenness.

"Time for dinner, Dad," Darren said, approaching him carefully.

"Go home, Darren," said his father gruffly. "You're too young to be in here."

"I just came in to get you. They all know me here, they see me often enough."

Mr. Bade turned towards him with a cold stare. "Then I'm sure you can see yourself out."

"Not without you. Come on. Mom is waiting."

"Let the bitch wait."

"Don't talk about your wife like that," Darren said heavily. "Just come home."

"I can talk however I like. Get out."

Darren took a deep breath, and tried to quell the rising anger inside of him. He imagined that his mind was a broad horizon, a white plain, of nothing but snow, or perhaps, salt. Anything peaceful that stretched as far as the eye could see. He reached for his father's shoulder, but thought better of it. Pausing, hand in midair, he tried to assume a gentle voice of authority.

"You _will _come with me."

Mr. Bade sighed resignedly. "I… will come with you." He shoved his empty glass over angrily, and chucked a dirty napkin across the bar. The barman hollered something in an angry dialect and shook a fist.

Darren took a step back, and his father followed him. He'd never seen him come without much of a fight, so this development was curious. He had almost felt like he wasn't the one telling him what to do—something else had done it for him.

"How did you get him to do that?" Constantine asked, wide-eyed.

"I don't know," Darren whispered, honestly.

They led him through the back door, and his father stumbled across the stoop.

"Damn stair," he muttered. Darren caught him just before he fell, and held onto his arms to keep him from making too much a fool of himself before he could even exit properly.

"You're drunk," Darren pointed out gruffly. "Maybe a couple of stubbed toes will sober you up." He guided him out into the alleyway.

"Don't scuff my porch," called the barman after them, sarcastically, in broken basic. Several of the patrons laughed loudly.

"Just taking out the trash," Darren snapped back angrily.

Constantine's mouth dropped open.

At his words, Mr. Bade froze momentarily. Then he straightened and whirled around, fists swinging.

"Wait!" Constantine cried.

Mr. Bade's arm caught Darren on the side of his face, and he swung back with his other arm, landing a fist on the right side of Darren's face. It spun Darren almost completely around before knocking him flat on his back.

"Mr. B! Stop!" Constantine reached for his shoulders and was shoved back. Mr. Bade fell to his knees, straddling Darren's chest, holding a fistful of his jacket.

"No son of mine," he growled darkly, slapping his face and then gripping his chin in his hand. "Will disrespect me in front of my colleagues again. Do you hear me?"

"Colleagues? You didn't even know half the strangers in that bar," Darren coughed. "They're lowlifes."

Mr. Bade brought his elbow down on Darren's nose with an angry grunt. There was a crunch.

"Gah!" growled Darren, momentarily blinded with pain. He held up his hands weakly, trying to ward off his father. Blood poured out of his nose.

Constantine found a chunk of pipe pulled away from the nearby wall, detached it, and walked over calmly. "Mr. B," he said, "If you don't get off him, I will hit you in the head with this."

"Constantine, don't," Darren choked.

"No, no, don't worry about your little friend, our conversation is over," Mr. Bade got off and stood, swaying to catch his bearings. Then he began stumbling back the alleyway alone.

Constantine pulled Darren into a sitting position. Darren's every exhale was almost a scream through gritted teeth. "He broke my nose," he managed to get out.

"Okay, okay—um—we need to get you to a med, then. Let's go."

Darren struggled to his feet dizzily. Constantine put Darren's arm around his shoulders and helped support his weight, walking him slowly after the retreating shape of his father. "It's going to be okay, man," he said kindly. "Don't worry. You'll look badass when it heals, okay?"

Tal stepped from the shadows again, watching with confusion as the boy's father stumbled up the alleyway and went through the entrance. She could smell blood, but it wasn't from him. But her target was approaching, and he wasn't walking entirely on his own power, his friend was by his side…

They went into the house. She tapped the comlink on her wrist, holding it close to her mouth. "Ian," she said quietly, "There's been a delay. If I am going to be later than our planned meeting time, I'll contact you again. I think I can still make it on time, but I wanted to warn you."

"What happened?"

"My target seems to be quite a trouble-maker. It might be a while longer before I can get him alone."

"Very well. Are you sure I cannot send any of my people to help?"

"More help will only attract attention. Stay with the plan but I'll tell you if it changes."

"All right. Be careful."

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	4. Darren and 'Steen

**Chapter Four**

**Darren and 'Steen**

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"What happened?" Mrs. Bade asked in horror when Darren came warily inside. Mr. Bade was already seated at the table, head slumped and nearly falling into his stew as he ate with slow, purposeful mouthfuls.

"Don't act surprised, it's insulting," Darren said darkly, grotesque blood dribbling down into his mouth as he spoke.

"What—did you do this?" Mrs. Bade exclaimed.

"Leave me alone," his father demanded. "I'd rather kill myself than listen to you nag me about something."

Darren launched himself out of Constantine's restraining hold. "Leave her alone."

Mr. Bade gave him a bemused glance, then continued eating his supper.

"Darren, come on, buddy, we should go to the meds," Constantine said quietly.

Darren forcefully turned his father's shoulders so that he had to look up at him from his chair. "Listen to me, you son of a bitch," he said. "I know you hit her today while I was at school. Don't you ever—ever—touch her again. You hear me? If you do, I _will _kill you."

"Do not speak to your father like that!" Mrs. Bade whispered. "What right have you to _judge _him?"

"You should listen to your mother," Mr. Bade gave a satisfied nod to his loyal wife and resumed eating.

"Come on, man, this isn't going to help," Constantine latched onto Darren's arm like a mynock. He tugged a small hand towel from the hook on the kitchen wall and put it in Darren's hands. "Mrs. B, he needs a med, okay? Can I borrow your speeder?"

"It's on the roof," she replied, robotically. Her eyes wandered over Darren's bloodied face, but made no move to comfort him. She turned back to the kitchen and began to dish herself up a helping of stew. Darren could see it in the slump of her shoulders—she was beaten. Perhaps she had tried to fight battles like this one earlier in their marriage, but she had given up. She had resigned herself to be treated like this. Everything in her movements seemed to say _I'm tired and the sooner you stop fighting him, the happier we'll be._

Constantine pulled Darren out of his reverie. They made their way back down the short hall. Across from the 'fresher, there was an entrance to the lift for the rooftop access. All occupants of these apartments had to park their transportations on the roof, for there wasn't room on the streets and they were too low-class for docking bays.

Darren put in the keycode and the lift door opened. They stepped into the faded green interior, and the doors slid shut. Darren hit the button for the roof, and left a bloodied fingerprint on the keypad. He tried to wipe it off with the rag, and then gave up and stuffed it under his nose instead.

They were silent as the lift hummed upwards, opening out onto the flat roof of the boxy, stacked apartments. Darren looked at the view, and for a moment he paused, wondering if the fancy skyscrapers miles away—with microscopic windows—hid raging fathers who beat their children just like this end of town. The sky shone with orange heat and blood-red clouds, the sunset dark with pollution and flickering with the lights of heavy traffic as people returned home from work.

Constantine didn't waste any time hopping into the speeder and looking at Darren with a hurried sympathy.

"Come on, man," he said with a patience that he didn't possess, "Let's go."

Darren reluctantly got inside the open top, strapping himself into the seat and staring mutely ahead. Constantine began to plug in the coordinates for the hospital. He hardly flinched when Darren let out a harsh curse and tried to cover his face without touching his nose. "What the hell?" he muttered. "Steen—my Dad has lashed out before, but he's never—he's never pinned me down like that and broke something before. Ugh—it hurts to talk. Never mind."

"Just let it out, man," Constantine said easily. "If you want. Or not. You should probably put that rag back, though."

He was no stranger to Darren's rages, and while the cruelty in him wished he could point out that he can see where he gets it from, he chose often to simply let the moments pass, and try and calm Darren after, not before or during.

The speeder chugged to life, and settled into a melodious purr. It wasn't much to look at despite sounding good. The current fad in transport design was bulk and gray plated, for they lasted longer in appearance and retained less damage. From the richest cruiser to the dumpiest barge, everything looked like a common metal box of some sort.

When Mr. Bade was in the service, the cruisers were all smooth, shiny, and colorful. Speed was more important than quality, and the paint jobs were so perfect that the surfaces of ships were often reflective. As time wore on, technology grew uglier, but better.

This is once-shiny relic was what Mr. Bade owned, and he never really planned on replacing it, despite the yellow paint had all but chipped away and the double turbine engines in front looked exposed and strange under two, broad wings that came to two rounded points in the front of the speeder. Darren always thought it looked like a tooth. Constantine was just secretly thrilled that Mrs. Bade trusted him to drive it—he was known for his accident-proneness.

As they sped off into the sky, Constantine spotted a shadow of a person on the roof watching them leave. He assumed Mrs. Bade was making sure they were on their way and didn't think any more about it.

…

Constantine, referred to lovingly (and sometimes annoyingly) as 'Steen' by his close friends, had always been a clown. He felt uncomfortable with serious situations, for he had a lighthearted view on life, and he hated being confronted with vulnerability, which living under Empire rule required. His carefree attitude came from deep within him, stemming from a fear of death and the end of a mortal life. To admit that would be withdrawing into the darkest recess of a soul that he pretended he did not possess. It was easier to laugh than to cry, and better to make his way through life without being noticed by anyone dangerous. Constantine wanted to live long and happily, but he did not want to prosper or be anyone special. He kept his grades average, his trouble to a happy medium, and his friendships cheerful.

Darren challenged everything about his comedic ways. Darren was a moody, angry kid. They ignored each other in earlier grades, but Constantine could not turn a blind eye to Darren's hotshot brain for ancient politics and justice. When Darren would disrupt class and be punished, Constantine's heart went out to him. It wasn't long before he tried to take a fall for one of Darren's outspoken opinions, and both of them were punished. Sitting alone in detention together for the first time, they became instant friends. Something about Darren's despairing view of life under the Empire, and Constantine's devil-may-care outlook, came together to form a third and strange form of existence. They did not cancel each other out, but provided both strengths and weaknesses that the other lacked.

And for the rest of the years in secondary school, Constantine tried to keep Darren out of trouble, and Darren often dragged him into it. It wasn't long before their school performances were practically a matched set.

Darren's home life was surprising to Constantine. He had always assumed Darren came from a middle-class family that had ties to the Jedi, but it turned out Mr. Bade had served the Empire in its transitional stage from the Jedi's Republic. His heritage was Imperial through and through, and his father was a cruel, violent man. Constantine felt sympathy for Darren, because it was obvious his father had no love for him. Constantine could relate, for his parents were always abandoning him for the latest exciting destination, and could sometimes be gone for months at the time, without leaving money or groceries for their son. In a way, Constantine was jealous. Mr. Bade may beat Darren's ass whenever he was cross, but at least he provided food. Darren may have a black eye, but he had a full stomach. Constantine hated being ignored.

They envied each other.

…

Constantine tapped his foot impatiently on the black vent floor. Darren finally came out of the med room with a funny white pincher molded to the bridge of his nose. The bruising had finally began to show under his eyes, a strange red and purple medley where he should have had something normal, like acne.

"Hail the conqueror," Constantine gave a whispered cheer. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," Darren nodded. He had been given the time he needed to cool off, and Constantine hoped they could just resume life as usual. "They gave me an extra ice pack infused with bacta, so I won't have to use the one Mom is using. This little thing on my nose is holding the bone in place."

"Was the nurse hot?"

"It was a droid."

Constantine paused. "Oh, all right," he hit the button for the lift back to the speeder. "Was the droid hot?"

Darren laughed, and winced, putting a hand to his nose. "Ouch. Man, you kill me."

"Sorry. Can we go back to normal now? No more alleyway beatings?"

"No one would like that more than me. And I never said thank-you…"

"Please don't worry about it. Seriously. You know gratitude makes me claustrophobic."

"Haha—ow…"

…

On the way back to Darren's home, they stopped at Constantine's. It was on the eightieth floor of a tall, middle-class skyscraper, where the apartments were a little small and cramped, but the faux-marble floors and wide city-view windows made up for it. Constantine entered his door pass and stepped inside, kicking a few jackets and umbrellas from the floor and waving a hand in front of the motion sensor light.

The apartment flickered to life, the sunken living room lit by a cheap chandelier and couches made from the long, silver fur of some creature. In the kitchen, the clear glass table and counters with tiny holiday lights embedded in the edges lit up, and would have looked like a starry sky if it wasn't covered in piles and piles of papers, magazines, compads, file boxes, and travel brochures.

"So where did your parents go this time?" Darren asked.

Constantine opened a tiny hall closet by the front door and pulled out a duffel bag. "Not sure." He stuffed a jacket and a pair of boots in the bag, struggling clumsily with getting the sleeves to stay inside as he walked over to the table. He pulled a travel brochure off the top of the mess, and chucked it to Darren. "Check that," he said, turning and opening a cupboard door. He pulled out a carton of blue liquid, sniffed the inside, winced, and dropped it into the trash bin.

Darren opened the brochure to find two receipts for a cruise barge, purchased a day ago. "Alderaan," he announced, "They went to Alderaan… on a cruise."

"Well, I _do _hear Alderaan is lovely this time of year," Constantine said flatly, trying not to feel the prick of being left behind while his parents enjoyed the immense snow-capped mountains and gloriously summer grasslands. He stomped back to his bedroom, and Darren followed slowly, wishing that he and Constantine could come and stay in_ this _apartment instead.

"Hey, so I've got a bunch of clothes here that aren't mine," Constantine said apologetically, sticking his head out of his room. "Um, I've borrowed at least one article of clothing whenever I come over, and now there's kind of a lot here."

"Just how much?" Darren asked, trying not to laugh. He put a protective hand over his nose and peered in—not for the smell, but for the fact that if he so much as giggled, his nose's pain would probably make him cry like a little kid.

The upper half of Constantine's room was surprisingly clean and white. Shelves against one wall boasted several multi-colored items, like school notebooks and fist-sized balls that floated around and changed color depending on temperatures outdoors and time of day. His bed was made neatly and the darkened view was covered with a shade that projected an underwater-scape against the wall. Darren reached out and brushed at a holographic fish that wriggled by. The only thing unbearably _Constantine _about the room was that the floor was covered completely with clothes, shoes, school items, bits and pieces of a speederbike he was trying to fix, and a bowl of soggy cereal.

Darren spotted the pile of his clothes on the bed. "Yeah. Those are all mine."

Constantine shrugged. "We'll… uh… take them with us."

Darren glanced at his wrist, only to sigh with irritation.

"I'm not taking _that _long," protested Constantine vehemently, finishing the packing of his duffel and throwing it over his shoulder. "Look, I'm ready to go."

"No, no, that's not," Darren waved his hand. "Look. My wrist communicator is gone. I've lost it. Mom's going to throw a fit."

Constantine's eyes grew big. "We'll check the speeder. But I bet you it fell off in the alleyway."

Darren nodded. "I didn't have it at the hospital. It _has _to be there. Let's look for it and try not the raise my mom's suspicions, okay?"

"Got it."

…

The search in the speeder proved to be unsuccessful. Upon their return to Darren's home, the boys tried to casually enter through the front door and, to their relief, found that Mr. and Mrs. Bade had gone to bed, and left a note on the table for the boys to help themselves to the leftover stew. They pushed right through to the sitting room, opened the small door, and went down the short ladder into the alleyway once again.

Darren went first. He immediately bent down and began examining the ground, following his own—literal—blood trail to see where he dropped his communicator. He thought he heard something, steps on the dirty ground. There were boots walking very quickly towards him, and he glanced up, mildly curious about who else would be wandering through here.

He found himself face to face with the barrel of a blaster.

…

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